Eventually we summed up progress: 'Quintus, shoot the first spear.'
Justinus had learned in the legions how to give intelligence reports to brusque commanding officers. He was relaxed. Looking deceptively casual, he surprised me with some useful gen: 'Gloccus and Cotta have been partners for a couple of decades. Everyone speaks of them as famously unreliable- yet they are somehow accepted and still given work.'
'Custom of the trade,' I said gloomily. 'A standard building contract contains a clause that says it shall be the contractor's responsibility to destroy the Premises, abandon the agreed Drawings and delay the Works until at least three Festivals of Compitalia have passed.'
He grinned. 'They do cheap house extensions, incompetent remodelling, occasional contract work for professional landlords. Presumably the landlords' fees are larger, so the incentive to turn up on site is greater.'
'And landlords employ project managers who flay slackers,' Aelianus suggested. I said nothing.
'Halt their clients are in dispute with them for years afterwards,' Justinus continued. 'They seem to live with it. When it looks like becoming a court case, Gloccus and Cotta cave in; they will sometimes bodge repairs, or a favourite trick is to hand over a free statue plinth as supposed compensation.'
'Offering a half-price rude statue that the client doesn't want?'
'And thus squeezing even more cash from him! How did you know, Falco?'
'Instinct, my dear Quintus. Aulus -contribute?'
Aelianus squared up slightly. He was slapdash by nature, but a generous superior would say he might repay the effort of training him. I was not sure I called him a worthwhile investment. 'Gloccus lives by the Portico of Livia with a skinny drab who yelled at me. Her hysteria seemed genuine- she hasn't seen him for some weeks.'
'He left without warning and without paying the rent?'
'Astute, Falco!' Could I bear this patronising swine? 'She described him rather colour fully as a fat, half-bald slob spawned by a rat on a stormy night. Other people agreed he's paunchy and untidy, but he has a secret charm that no one could quite identify. They 'can't see how he gets away with it', seems the consensus.'
'Cotta?'
'Cotta lives- or lived alone in a third-floor set of rooms over a street-market. He's not there now. No one locally ever saw much of him, and no one knows where he's gone.'
'What's he like?'
'Skinny and secretive. Regarded as a bit of an odd case. Never really wanted to be a builder who can blame him? and rarely seemed happy with his lot. A woman who sold him cheese sometimes on his way home in the evening, said his older brother is something in the medical line- an apothecary perhaps? Cotta grew up in his shadow and always envied him.'
'Ah, a thwarted-ambition story!' That sort of tale always makes me sarcastic. 'Doesn't your heart bleed? 'My brother saves lives, so I'll smash in people's heads to show I'm a big rissole too…' How do their workmen view these princes?'
'The labourers were surprisingly slow to insult them,' marvelled Justinus. Perhaps it was his first experience of the mindless loyalty of men in trade men who know they may have to work with the same bastards again.
'Subcontractors and suppliers?'
'Buttoned up.' They, too, stick with their own.
'Nobody would even tell us who's missing,' Aelianus said, scowling.
'Hmm.' I gave them a mysterious half smile. 'Try this: The dead man is a tile-grouter called Stephanus.' Aelianus started to glance at Justinus, then remembered they were on bad terms. I paused, to show I had noticed the reaction. 'He was thirty-four, bearded, no distinguishing features; had a two-year-old son by a waitress; was known for his hot temper. He thought Gloccus was a turd who had diddled his previous week's wages. On the day he disappeared, Stephanus had gone to work wearing a worn, but still respectable, pair of site boots which had black thongs, one with a newly stitched repair.'
They were silent for only a moment. Justinus got there first. 'The waitress found out that you were working on the murder, and came to ask about the missing father of her son?'
'Smart boy. To celebrate, it's your turn to buy the drinks.'
'Forget it!'Justinus exclaimed with a laugh. 'I've a bride who thinks it's time we stopped living with my parents- and I've no savings.'
The senator's house at the Capena Gate was a spacious spread but having many rooms to flounce off to only created more opportunities for quarrels. I knew Aelianus thought it was time that his brother and Claudia moved out. Well, he would. 'We are not going to earn much on this, are we, Falco?' He wanted Justinus to suffer.
'No.'
'I see it as an orientation exercise,' Aelianus philosophised.
'Aulus,' snarled his brother, 'you are so pompous, you really should be in the Senate.'
I stepped in fast. 'Informing is about days of nuisance work, while you long for a big enquiry. Don't despair,' I chaffed them cheerily. 'I had one once.'
I gave them a few ideas for following up, though they were losing heart. So was I. The best ploy would be to drop this, but to store our notes handily under the bed. One day Gloccus and Cotta would return to Rome. Those types always do.
Whilst my runners pursued our uninspiring leads, I devoted myself to family issues. One joyless task was on behalf of my sister Maia; I ended her tenancy on the house Anacrites had trashed. After I gave the keys back to the landlord, I still used to walk that way, keeping watch. If I had caught Anacrites lurking in the area, I would have spitted him, roasted him, then thrown him to the homeless dogs.
In fact something worse happened. One evening I spotted a woman I recognised, talking to one of Maia's neighbours. I had told a few trusted people that my sister had moved away to a place of safety; I never mentioned where. Friends understood the situation. Nothing would be said to a casual enquirer. Her neighbour was now shaking her head unhelpfully.
But I knew the infiltrator. She had dangerous skills. Her paid task was finding people who were attempting to stay hidden. If she found them- that is, when she found them- they always regretted it.
This woman was called Perella. Her arrival confirmed my worst fears: Anacrites was having the place observed. He had sent one of his best operatives too. Perella might look like a comfortable, harmless bundle who was only after female gossip. She was past her prime; nothing would change that. But under the dark frumpy gown she had the body of a professional dancer, athletic and tough as tarred twine. Her intelligence would shame most men; her persistence and courage frightened even me.
She worked for the Chief Spy. She was damned good and she enjoyed that fact. She usually worked alone. Scruples did not trouble her. She would tackle everything; she was utterly professional. If she had been given the ultimate order, I knew that she would kill.
My solution was easy. Sometimes the Fates must have a drop too much to drink; while they lie down groaning with a headache, they forget to screw you.
A let-out arrived the same evening, when I reached home. The lads and I had arranged to hold a final consultation about the missing builders. Aelianus and Justinus had discovered something that day which made them think we should call off our search.
'Gloccus and Cotta are way out of reach.' Aelianus used a nasty smirk sometimes.
I was too upset by Perella; I just rambled, with half my mind on it: 'So where are they? A yurt in darkest Scythia? While some tradesmen dream of retiring to a tasteless southern villa, with a pergola that a Babylonian king would envy, do bath house contractors opt for being smoked to oblivion with filthy drugs in exotic eastern tents?'
'Worse, Falco.' Suddenly I knew what was coming. Still too full of himself, Aelianus continued, 'There is some large project overseas- building specialists are being sent from Rome. It is regarded as a hard posting, but we were told it is surprisingly popular.'
'High rates of pay,'Justinus inserted dryly.
They were trying to be mysterious, but I already knew of a project that would fit.
'Do you want to guess, Falco?'
'No.'
I leaned back, cradling my head. I sucked my teeth. This was normal man-management: I looked supercilious
